A mixed-up season
grey rain, and then scorching heat
Yet I long for Fall
Category: Poetry
A Swiss Dream
A journey filled with wonder and woe,
a dragon in a tower filled with gems and gold,
A reward for the ones who live to tell.
Alpine hills and glacial flowing rivers of blue,
cowbell cows and the odd grumpy Elf,
Someone baking bread and churning butter.
A journey to find the lock without an answer,
moving on through living romanticism,
Too much cheese and apple juice as we roll.
My Living Ghost
Between scents of wood
you come to me as a living ghost
speaking to me, yet close
to the unconsciousness
of death and all that they desire
for the quota must be met
I dream of you tonight
caught within the ghostly fireflies
lighting the fiery darkness
Bitter Heart
A bitter heart
Too long on the land, too long without love
Bleeding hills
Rain swept longing and the sound of the wind
Too far away
The sea is too far away to transform his heart
Old and ruined
No children to see, no grandchildren to love
He withers
until the sea comes to him
Haiku: Untitled
a newfound warmth
my pieces tumble away
a chapter closing
Violet Worry
violet bruises
“no cause for concern”, you say to the summer day
people worry
correction: friends and family worry about this you
incorrection
no guilty boyfriend or jilted lover created the violet
truthfully
it was you, wildly spinning into inanimate objects
while tripping out to Oscillate Wildly on repeat
My Daughter
My daughter’s scared of death,
yet the dead live all around us.
She cries to me about the ghosts,
yet the ghosts won’t harm us.
My daughter shivers at the corners,
yet there is no one to scare us.
She tells me of the evil monsters,
yet there is no evil to touch us.
My blossoming daughter, she runs,
yet dead sorrow cannot touch us
for she lives
and
I am dead
Old = New
Modern fashions
wearing the latest fashions
We are fashionable
what those before wore is gone
Modern and futuristic
wearing what dreams come
We wear art-borrowed
what remake of something old
Constant Winter
Leaves of green etched into a black canvas,
white flowers mixed in for the forest spirit
and a sprinkling of snow upon the old trees.
If only those mythical flowers were real,
how they would frolic wickedly in the sun.
It’s over now, and the end passed me by;
never to feel Spring petals on my ice skin.
Flower
A flower in Spring
You exude a rare nectar
Me, a buzzing bee
Sipping upon your nectar
Napping amongst your petals
C & K 